


Make Our Own Way

by Journalist298



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post GOT ending, Power to the People, but it's what I wanted, for all the Gendrya fans, it's not what we're going to get, my happily ever after, this is what I want from the ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 20:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18880435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Journalist298/pseuds/Journalist298
Summary: After the Siege on King's Landing, the people of the once-great city rebuild under the direction of those who never wanted that power. The decisions of two people shape the future of Westeros.





	Make Our Own Way

**Author's Note:**

> Okay people, we're at the bottom of the ninth, in the last innings - and other sports metaphors I don't understand. Whatever happens tomorrow (or tonight, depending on where you are in the world), Gendrya for life!
> 
> Canon compliant up to the end of 8x05 and is what I wanted out of the ending for Gendrya. This is what I wanted, this is my happy ending, and I thought I'd share it with you, the rest of the Gendrya fandom.
> 
> Also, don't ask me how Daenerys dies in my story, I don't know. I only know that she does. She deserved better than 8x05, she was strong enough to overcome her personal history. I wanted the best for her, I just don't think she's going to get it in 8x06.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones. Gendry or Jon would have at least mentioned Arya in Season 7, if I did.

Arya Stark tried not to appear too outwardly displeased by the constant praise and blessings of the surviving people of King’s Landing. To best put it out of her mind, she focused on the task at hand – bringing a sense of normalcy to the people.

Not that anything would be normal ever again.

Daenerys Targaryen, dead. Jon Snow, gone.

Following the death of his queen, lover and aunt, Jon was broken. He had stayed for a few days, trying to make amends, but his guilt of his men’s actions during the siege of King’s Landing had eaten away at his sense of honour and he abdicated all claim to the Iron Throne and absconded north, to join Tormund and the Wildings.

Now, a week after his desertion, Arya was half-wishing she’d gone with him. But…

She had been there, among the people as the work ended. She had tried and failed to save some of them. The memory of that little girl’s body, torched beyond recognition save for the horse doll she’d been carrying. It was in her honour, in honour of her mother who had saved her from being trampled and in honour of Sandor – who told her to live – that she stayed.

For so long, Arya had been a weapon, a killer, an instrument of death and now, by her own decision, she wanted to do the exact opposite and ease suffering and bring life.

Standing in a makeshift structure out front of the ruins of the Red Keep, Arya and her second in command, Davos, stood examining a multitude of maps, scrolls and lists. She rubbed her hand down her face, fighting the urge to wince at the residual pain it caused.

“My suggestion, Arya,” Davos said. He had finally come around in the past couple of days to not refer to her as ‘My Lady’. “Is to install a guard in and around King’s Landing. Once the people feel protected from bandits and looters, the tension among the people will lessen. King’s Landing is vulnerable to attack.”

“I agree, but where will we get the manpower? The one thing Jon and I agreed on before he left was to remove the Winterfell forces after the battle, they caused a lot of pain and the people didn’t trust them.

“Sansa’s letter says it’ll be another week before a fresh batch of soldiers arrive from the North and Yara’s force are best served protecting the coast. Riverrun and Dorne have promised men, but who knows when they’ll arrive. We need a ruler in King’s Landing, someone to unite the people.”

Davos was silent for a moment, before he remembered Arya preferred honesty. “You are their leader Arya, the people remember you trying to save them during the siege. You are the Dawnbringer, your authority is beyond anything a monarch could offer. By your blood and by your actions, you have secured the loyalty of all the remaining houses.”

“Pretty words, Onion Knight, you almost made me cry,” Arya teased.

“You’ve earned the people’s loyalty through actions, Arya. That’s more than any monarch and most Lords could say.”

Before Arya could respond, screams erupted in the streets. Her hand immediately at her waist, curling instinctively around Needle, she flew out of the structure and towards the source of the screams.

She blinked her eyes as she ran, the mass of screaming, running people near overloading her senses and causing an uncomfortable reminder of the battle not yet forgotten. Seeing the figure of their protector, the people converged in a clamour behind Arya as she faced the potential threat with naught but her skinny sword and a sense of determination.

Must like the songs and stories that were at that moment being written about her defeat of the Night King, what happened next became the stuff of legends.

As the screaming throng thinned, Arya was able to see what caused the commotion. Amidst the ruins of the once-great city, a pack of wolves stalked up the path toward the mass of people. Arya, a deep connection humming within, moved forward, sheathing Needle at her waist.

The people behind her cried and whined. Then a massive, imposing beast weaved its way through the pack of wolves and the small saviour, armed with nothing but her fearlessness, threw herself forward at the mercy of the beast.

No.

Not at the mercy.

Embracing.

A murmur of excitement and awe rippled through the people as they recognised the significance of what they were witnessing.

Arya Stark, the She-Wolf of the North, connecting with her Direwolf.

The young woman, fierce in all she did, embraced the Direwolf in a fierce hug. This was old magic, the people recognised. They were witnessing a magic and a bond far greater than any Southerner could understand. This was the bonds of the North.

Finally, the fierce She-Wolf stood at full height, standing alongside the fierce Direwolf. “It’s all right,” she said. “They’re here to protect us. They will patrol the boundaries and the city proper. Only lawlessness will draw their ire.”

* * *

Only four days after the arrival or Nymeria and her pack of wolves, the next cry of fear rang through the streets. Arya and Davos were inspecting the medical building – a building with blessedly limited damage – where the injured were being cared for.

“Commander Stark! Commander Stark, Ser Davos!” Arya had refused to be called anything akin to Lady or Queen. “An unknown force is approaching from the south east!” The terrified watchman collapsed at their feet. “A force of more than 200.”

Not a fearsome number, by any means. But the replacement Northern and Dornish forces weren’t due for another three and five days, respectively. But with the King’s Landing force decimated or deserted and only a bare force of Northern bannermen, it could have meant more bloodshed.

Without a word spoken, both Arya and Davos flew from the building and mounted horses to meet the invading force at the ruined gates of King Landing. For a few moments, the populous of King’s Landing waited with baited breath for further ruination.

Then, recognition. And confusion. And a whisper of tentative hope.

A banner. It was a banner they recognised and honoured.

The Baratheon stag banner flew proudly amidst the small approaching force. It was nostalgic, reminiscent of a time before bloodshed and incest and dragons.

But then…something was different. It was a Baratheon flag, no doubt, but…

The colours were wrong. A yellow – almost golden stag – on a backdrop of black. And there was no crown around the stag’s neck.

Who was this?

The Baratheon line had been killed of years prior. First, King Robert himself, then his supposed bastards, his children who were later discovered to be the products of incest and then Stannis and Renly.

Suddenly, the leader of the new arrivals was throwing himself from his steed at nearly same moment as the She-Wolf. The tall, strongly built-man who looked incredibly similar to that of a young Robert Baratheon ignored all sense of dignity as he charged at their leader. And while she started off at a walk, his great grin broke her into a wider smile and gait.

A few feet from him, the revered Arya Stark threw herself into the arms of the new arrival, who lifted her clear off the ground in a strong embrace and all but twirled her around. As the young man set her back on her feet, his hands moved to cradle her face, just as her hands did the same.

“You’re okay, you’re alive,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry – ,” her words were cut off as their lips met in a hurried and passionate kiss.

“I don’t care. You’re alive, Arya. That’s all that matters.”

The pair’s public reunion was cut short by Davos, as he approached and dropped a fatherly clap on the young man’s shoulders.

“Lad, what are you doing here? Where were you?”

“My Lord Baratheon,” came a clear, yet sad voice of a tall, blonde woman still sitting astride her horse. “It may be best if we move further within the city.”

Her arms still grasped by the supposed Baratheon lord, Arya peered around the young man and smiled. “Ser Brienne, Podrick, more familiar and welcome faces.”

The young man still perched upon his horse, his soft features stretched in a wide smile, and the sad, tall Lady knight, nodded in deference to Arya.

The crowd watched as their leader, her right hand and the cohort of new arrivals moved further into the city, into the large area in front of the ruins of the Red Keep and the throne room.

“Good people of King’s Landing, please do not be afraid. Please welcome Lord Gendry Baratheon, the Lord of Storm’s End and recently recognised son of the late King Robert Baratheon,” Davos called to the curious, milling crowd.

“Do not fear him or his party, he is an honoured friend and guest. He fought with myself, Commander Stark, Ser Brienne of Tarth and her squire Podrick Payne,” Davos indicated to two people at the front of the party on their horses. “And he is one of you. Born and raised right here in Flea Bottom, Lord Baratheon worked as an apprentice blacksmith on the Street of Steel before he was snuck out of the city when all of King Baratheon’s natural-born children were ordered to be slaughtered.”

The excited murmurings of the crowd increased as long-time residents and shoppers agreed and recognised the fine figure of the young man. Said young man was flushing red at the praise, but still kept a firm grip on their Commander Stark’s hand.

“We’re here to help,” the Lord Baratheon said. “I have not brought soldiers, but instead healers and cooks and smiths and builders. You are my people, and I’m here for you.”

Such a sentence, from monarchs and tyrants of days done, could have been construed as a threat and order. But the young man’s honest, open and slightly naïve demeanour endeared him to the crowd.

A cheer rang through the courtyard and Arya squeezed Gendry’s hand as Davos clapped him on the shoulder again. Leaning down to whisper in her ear, the Lord Baratheon, smiled.

“You’re in charge, M’lady. You tell me what you need.”

* * *

Sweaty, but incredibly sated, Arya collapsed on top of the equally dishevelled figure beneath her. Gendry smoothed away the strands of hair clinging to her face, his expression so loving and open she ducked her gaze to pepper his throat with kisses.

“I can’t believe you’re here. I thought you’d hate me. To receive without giving something in return…the Gods are never that kind.”

“Fuck the Gods, we’ll make our own way. Fuck tradition, look what it did to the world. People held on too hard to destiny and what the world was “supposed to be”. Fat lot of good that did,” Gendry said vehemently. Then, he softened. “I don’t…could never hate you. I was hurt, sure, but I was there, in that dark little space. I knew you cared. You’re Arya Stark, you’re stubborn and honourable.

“You kissed me,” he whispered, doing just so with tear-inducing softness. “You held me,” he said, pumping his hardening member against her inner thigh. “You spoke sweetly. You wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t mean it.

“I was high on the thought of being alive, of being named a Lord and just a little bit drunk. I put you on the spot, Arya. I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

“No,” she said, as she raised herself up just enough to take him deep inside her. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

* * *

“But how are you here with Stormlanders?”

Arya’s back was warmed by the broad and heated chest of the man lying behind her, his whole body concaved around her. One of his arms thrust over he hips, she held his big hand between her own smaller but almost-as-callused hands, examining it thoroughly.

“We sailed south with Jon before the battle. But then, as we docked, I realised there was more I could do. So, I took Brienne and Podrick with me and we sailed further south to Storm’s End. That’s why it’s taken me two weeks to get here. They accepted me as their Lord easy enough, it was harder to get them to agree to give up their labourers to come to King’s Landing.

“So I’m paying them. Every person who rode here is being paid out of the Storm’s End coffers. Do something good for them – good money for good work – while we do good here in King’s Landing.

“I didn’t know who was left, I didn’t know who was here. But I’m glad it’s you.”

Before she could respond in kind, he used his strong arm to hook her leg up, over his, to open her up wider, as he sunk into her warm depths from behind, bringing them towards a sharper form of ecstasy kindled by their reunion, with lazy, unhurried thrusts.

* * *

Leaning over the table, Davos pointed at a map of the city. “The cooks have been put to work, they’re feeding the people of King’s Landing now. The healers have taken over for the exhausted medics who were barely hanging on by a thread. The smiths are hard at work in the forge creating tools and building supplies. And the builders and labourers are clearing out rubble to find salvageable materials and checking the building remnants integrity.”

It had been two days since Gendry had arrived with the Storm’s End force and his words – but more importantly, actions – had made him as dear a figure as Arya Stark in the hearts of the residents of King’s Landing.

If he wasn’t in the company of the Commander Stark or Ser Davos, the young Lord Baratheon could be found in the forge, working as hard and as well as anyone else. Truly, he was a man of the people. Those who were left that had been familiar with the Street of Steel could be found on said street often, talking with the young Lord as he worked.

As Davos explained where the people of Storm’s End had been put to work to Arya and Gendry, they were interrupted by little Martha, a small girl who had once been a little bird for Varys and was now serving as a messenger.

“Forgive me, Ser, Milord, Mila – Your Gr – Commander,” she said and Arya tried hard to suppress her laugh, for she felt she’d been doing too much of that the past two days. “A message from one of the scouts said the Northern forces have been sighted, about a day’s ride away.”

“Thank you, Martha,” Davos said kindly.

The young girl turned to leave, and then hesitated.

“Is there something else, Martha?” Arya asked.

“It’s just – I’ve heard word the cooking cauldron – the big one – broke about an hour ago. And with more men arriving tomorrow…”

“It broke?” Arya continued, looking to Gendry and Davos. “Do we have another, or could we make another?”

“No, I had word from the smiths and labourers less than an hour ago. Smiths are using broken swords to melt down into nails and sheet metal and – ”

Gendry froze for a moment and Arya, Davos and Martha could see his mind working. All of a sudden, he hefted his giant Warhammer onto his shoulder and left. The other three were not far behind him and Davos called after him as the young Lord made his way up the steps into the Red Keep and further beyond, into the throne room.

People milling nearby watched in amazement. The throne room had become, by unspoken law, off limits. Some curious folk followed after Ser Davos, Commander Stark and little Martha, who in turn, were almost jogging to keep up with the determined Lord Baratheon.

From the top of the throne room, they watched as Lord Baratheon crossed to the end of the room, where the Iron Throne sat, covered in ash. With only a moment of hesitation, Lord Baratheon swung the hammer up and pulled it down with a mighty crash, onto the side of the throne.

People gasped as the Lord Baratheon smashed and smashed and smashed away at the throne that had once been his father’s.

Might swing after mighty swing brought more and more swords from the throne down to the floor.

“Gendry, lad, what – ”

“What good does this fucking chair do? People have died for this stupid thing. Good people, bad people – so many people. Well, fuck it,” he wiped at his brow and then pointed at the a person he recognised as a fellow blacksmith. “You, go clear out the forge. We need a new cauldron to feed people and for once, this fucking chair is going to do something good.”

The blacksmith ran out, followed by a few people, who no doubt were spreading the word. With each swing of the hammer, Arya approached Gendry.

“Stupid,” she smiled fondly, proudly. “There’s more than enough metal there for a cauldron, what are you going to do with the rest?”

“I’ll find other uses, there’s a lot of people that need the metal more than whoever sits on the throne next,” he said, looking at her with sparkling, determined Baratheon-blue eyes. 

Then, in front of all and sundry gathered in the throne room, Arya crossed the rest of the distance to him and – resting a hand on his arm to stay his swings and use it as leverage – she leaned up and kissed him firmly on the lips. “You’re doing the right thing.”

A whisper rippled through the congregation as they watched the young Lord Baratheon heft his Warhammer on his shoulder like it did not weigh anything, and use his free arm to wind around Commander Stark’s waist and bring her in for a longer, deeper kiss.

Davos tried not to look too fondly exasperated at the couple’s antics.

* * *

People watched, awed, as one resident after the next walked in and out of the throne room to the forge, with an armful of swords in hand. Their surprise only increased as Lord Baratheon walked out of the throne room, Warhammer in one hand, dragging the remains of the entire back of the throne with the other and Commander Stark close by his side.

They watched in awe, as the Smith Lord got to work in the forge, a place they now knew he knew better than anything in the world. They murmured as the first of the damned swords were melted down and while they were, Lord Baratheon knelt to examine the small mountain of swords.

Commander Stark and Ser Davos left the Lord to his forge and headed back to their own areas of expertise. One to the armoury to examine the situation and the other to the harbour to manage the arrival of fishermen from the coast.

* * *

Where the Lord Baratheon has been somewhat of a large shadow for Commander Stark, now that he was busy in the forge, she had gained herself a small, but no less welcome company. Little Martha had decided that like any good Knight – and the Commander more than qualified, she determined – should have a squire.

As the Commander poured over maps and scrolls and when she didn’t have Martha running errands, she had the little girl practicing her letters. The little girl had been a small spy for Lord Varys and after his death, she had jumped on the first supply wagon from Dragonstone after the Battle of King’s Landing was over, determined to do what she could to honour her Lord.

Ser Davos indulged her, teaching her letters when the Commander wasn’t around.

“Ser? Are Lord Baratheon and Commander Stark in love?”

Davos considered his options for a moment. “That’s for them to figure out.”

“But do you think they are?”

“Nothing is more obvious to me.”

* * *

Lord Gendry Baratheon had the cauldron completed and cooking food within two days. What he was doing with the remainder of the melted metal became known the week later.

Once the throne had been dismantled, the unspoken rule to not enter the throne room vanished and the people began to use it as a public gathering to discuss repairs. Commander Stark and Ser Davos could often be seen at their relocated table near to where the throne had been. As the Commander, Lord and Ser ingratiated themselves with the people, said people found it easier to approach them.

Some brought messages, some brought ideas, but all were welcome.

On that day, nine days after the Iron Throne had been destroyed, Lord Baratheon entered the throne room, his arms full, holding several weapons. People paused in their conversations as he approached the Commander and Ser Davos.

“It’s all gone. I made nails, window frames, brackets, sheet metal and more. The Iron Thone has been broken down to rebuild King’s Landing,” the young Lord said, gently putting the weapons on the table.

“And what are these, lad?” Davos asked.

“Something special,” he responded, proudly as he lifted a Warhammer off the table. “Before he left for Casterley Rock, Lord Tyrion gave me Widow’s Wail and combined with the Iron Throne’s metal, I made these.” He held out the Warhammer. “The hammer head is made normally, but the spike at the top and bottom are Valyrian Steel.”

He put down the Warhammer and picked up a large, round shield, decorated with the design of a compass.

“I thought this could be for the new head of the Kingsguard or whatever group fills that role later on. It’s not made entirely of Valyrian Steel, but there’s some in there for strength.”

“Why a compass?” Arya asked, curious.

Gendry’s face almost flushed. “I though…being for the head of the Kingsguard, and the Kingsguard being for the King, and the King being for the people, north, south, east and west of King’s Landing…”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Arya said, brushing along the compass’ design.

“And the sword?” Davos asked, already looking at the small sword sitting on the table.

Gendry put down the shield and picked up the sword, which is when Arya noticed it looked odd in his grip. “It’s too small.”

Gendry shook his head. “It’s perfect. Valyrian Steel blade and a hilt made from the throne. And,” he held it out to Arya. “It’s for you. You protected this Gods-forsaken country better than anyone. It’s a little bigger than Needle, but Needle was a gift for a child. This is a gift for a fully-grown warrior.”

Arya took the sword, words failing her. She tested its weight in her hand, looking at the intricate details on the hilt and along the blade.

“From what Tyrion told me,” Davos said, looking at the sword. “Widow’s Wail – along with Ser Brienne’s Oathkeeper – was made from Ice, your father’s sword. And with the hilt made from the throne, it could be argued that belonged to the Baratheons. So, a gift thrice over.”

Tears welled in Arya’s eyes and she threw herself at Gendry, sword still in hand. “I love you. I can’t – I’m – I’m sorry about – ”

“I love you too,” Gendry cut off her apology with his lips.

Pulling away enough to look him in the eyes, she smiled. “Ask me again.”

Gendry’s eyes widened, as did the smile on his face. He moved his hands to hold her face gently. “Marry me, Arya. Please? Be my family.”

This time, she gave her answer before she kissed him, not wanting to invite the memory of his last proposal. After a few happy moments of celebrating with a passionate kiss, Davos interrupted them with a loud clearing of his throat. It was only then they realised they had an audience.

To their great relief, their conversation was quiet enough that the people of King’s Landing had not heard the particulars. Sansa deserved to know first.

“So, lass, what will you call your new sword?”

Arya let go of Gendry and backed away enough to look at the sword, thinking of all those who it represented. She looked up at Gendry and smiled.

“Winter’s Fury.”

* * *

After they received Sansa’s joyous response a week later, they made the information public to the people and the Lords and Ladies of Westeros’ houses. Those old enough to remember the great friendship between Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon knew the honoured men would have looked on the match in good favour.

The joining of house Stark and Baratheon was a match long-desired. With the first two betrothals dissolving in the most heinous of ways, Houses across the land prayed to the Gods, old and new, that third time was the charm.

Not wanting to wait too long, Arya and Gendry waited only long enough for Sansa and Bran to sail down from Winterfell. In the four days it took, Lord Tyrion arrived from Casterley Rock, the Dornish Prince made the journey north, Lady Yara arrived from the Iron Islands and an envoy from the

In honour of the Stark family’s traditions – but not necessarily their own beliefs – Arya and Gendry married in the Godswood, which had mercifully escaped any major damage from the battle. The only one more emotional than Sansa was, almost unsurprisingly, Davos, who conducted the ceremony, at the couple’s request.

The feast after the wedding we held in the now-cleared courtyard in front of the Red Keep and all the residents of King’s Landing were invited to attend. It was there, as the people feasted and cheered and celebrated, that the idea spread.

* * *

“They should rule.”

* * *

“They care about us.”

* * *

“If you think about it, King Robert had the last legitimate claim to the throne. And now he has an heir.”

* * *

“An heir that grew up here. He’s one of us.”

* * *

“She killed the Night King.”

* * *

“He cares about us.”

* * *

“She cares about us.”

* * *

“The People’s King.”

* * *

“The People’s Queen.”

* * *

Arya and Gendry heard none of this. They had eaten their fill and cheered like everyone else, but then they retired to their room. There they decided to partake in a much more private and intimate form of celebration.

Four times.

* * *

The newlyweds came down from their room late the next day. The sun was already high in the sky and people would have been at work, had there not been a city-wide hangover. As the couple entered the throne room to continue the rebuilding efforts, they were surprised to see a long table from the night before had been set up and the Lords and envoys from the visiting Houses were sitting around it, talking intently.

And, surprisingly enough, there stood little Martha at the end of the table, a few of the townsfolk behind her.

Sansa indicated for Arya and Gendry to sit at the two chairs at the other end of the table and they became aware something monumental was happening.

“Sansa? What’s wrong?” Arya asked, noting the tears gathering in her sister’s eyes.

“It would seem, My Lady,” Davos said, ignoring how her nose wrinkled in displeasure. “That the people have come forward with a suggestion. They’ve put the idea to the Lords and Ladies of the great houses, and there seems to be an agreement.”

“What suggestion?” Gendry asked.

There was silence around the table, with no one willing to voice the words.

“We want you and Commander Stark, I mean…Commander Baratheon, to be the King and Queen.”

It was little Martha that spoke, her figure straight and her face flush with determination.

“What? But - ” Gendry started.

“It would seem, Lord Baratheon, the people have already unofficially decided you as their monarchs. The Lannisters,” Tyrion said, nursing a cup of wine. “Only claimed the throne through lies and treason. The last, legitimate claim, that was earned on the battlefield, was your father, the late King Robert Baratheon.”

The crowd of people behind Martha nodded vigorously, as did some of the older, more traditional Lords.

“When there was no one else there capable or willing to, you both committed yourself to repairing the city and saving its people,” Samwell Tarly said.

“I didn’t help because I wanted to be Queen, that’s not what I’ve ever wanted,” Arya said.

“And I’m just a bastard.”

“Lord Varys spoke to me of this in Dragonstone. I’m paraphrasing, but he said who better to rule than someone who doesn’t want to.”

“He was talking about Jon!” Arya said.

“And yet, who remained after the smoke cleared and used their power and strengths to help those in need. Jon’s guilt defeated his honour,” Bran said, his voice no less monotonous in the almost seven weeks since the defeat of the Night King.

Gendry and Arya looked at each other, desperately searching each other’s eyes.

“Can we have a moment?” Gendry asked, getting to his feet and leading by the Arya to the back of the room. “I’m so sorry Arya, I know you never wanted to be a lady. Or a queen. I know this isn’t why you stayed.”

Arya was quiet for a moment, considering. “I stayed because I chose life. I stood on the map of Westeros with Sandor and he told me not to be like him, to not choose a life of revenge. So I chose life,” she linked her fingers with his. “I tried so hard to save people as King’s Landing collapsed around us. I failed. And I stayed because I wanted to do better. I was a weapon of death for so long, I wanted to be a weapon for life.”

“You were never a weapon, you were a tool.” Arya arched a brow, smirking at him as he blushed. “What I mean is that you have always used your…talents, for good. You have this power that could do so much evil, but you have always, always chosen what’s right.” He unlinked one of their hands and brushed his fingers over her side, where he knew her scars were. “You told me you got these because you disobeyed an order to kill a woman who you knew didn’t deserve to die.

“You only executed the Frey men who killed your family, no innocents, not like…” he paused, not needing to elaborate on the still-so-recent atrocities. “You made your own way and helped people at the same time. You’re way more qualified and worthy of being ruler, than anyone. But,” he paused taking her head in his hands. “Only if this is what you want.”

“I made my own way,” Arya whispered. “But, we’ll be equals. I won’t sit and knit and pop out babies to fill every room of this castle.”

Gendry chuckled. “You wouldn’t be the woman I loved if you did. Fuck being a Lady. Fuck wanting to rule. This,” he indicated to the still ruined throne room and the devastation beyond. “This is what happened because of women who wanted to rule.”

“We’ll make it our own way?”

“Hells, if we’re royalty, we can make it what we want. And do it, together.”

She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else. Only you.”

“None of it means anything if I’m not with you.”

With a final, slow kiss, the pair moved back over to the table of Lords and Ladies, who tried and failed to look like they weren’t trying to listen in on their conversation.

“Okay, we’ll do it. But there has to be some changes.”

* * *

With a Stark by blood on the throne, the people of the north approved Sansa’s decision to not re-declare the North’s independence from the crown. Sansa was named Wardeness of the North, a Stark now and forever more.

It took another week of negotiations of the Lords sitting around the table to decide and finalise the new laws. People worked well together when they wanted the same thing.

Peace.

It was decided that the eldest child, regardless of its sex, would be heir to the family’s house. In the case a daughter where it would be daughter to inherit, she could choose to retain her family name if she chose to marry and her husband would be her consort. If the they were both heirs, the decision was theirs to make.

Using the table discussions as a blueprint, it was decided to expand the King’s Council. In addition to the Hand and Masters, there would also be a representative from each of the seven realms on the council. Whether the councillor would be a relative of the House’s family or not was at the discretion of the House itself.

Abandoned since the Battle of King’s Landing, it was decided that Dragonstone would remain empty till such a time the people’s wounds had healed.

A beloved father-figure of the young King and a growing favourite of the Queen’s, Ser Davos Seaworth was rightfully rewarded for his dedicated service.

“Davos,” Gendry said during a private, quiet dinner between the newly-royal couple. “You saved my life, you protected Arya’s family when they needed allies and you’re the kindest man I know.”

“Come now, lad, you make it sound like one of us is dying.”

“Not for a very long time, I hope. Anyway,” Gendry continued. “We were talking and now that we have to stay here in King’s Landing, we need someone we trust to look after Storm’s End. Would you do that for us, would you be the Lord of Storm’s End?”

Davos gaped, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. Then he laughed. “You had me there for a moment, I thought you were serious.”

“We are,” Arya said, patting the older man’s arm. “Come on, Ser Onion Knight, catch up. Gendry loves you like a father and I have come to consider you an ally. Which is not something I do lightly. Be Lord of Storm’s End. No one deserves this more.”

“I can’t – Lad, I’m naught but a smuggler – ”

“And he was a Flea Bottom bastard. And as Gendry and I have found out recently, we have to make our own way,” Arya cut in.

“But why?” Davos croaked, warmth spreading through his chest.

“Because it’s right.”

Here, the fork did fall from Davos’ grip as Gendry spoke the words he himself once said to the boy, setting him out on a boat he could steer, on water he couldn’t swim, but with the promise of life.

“I will do you proud, I will serve you and the people of Storm’s End honourably.”

“No doubts from me,” Gendry said, a smile on his face as he toasted with the older man.

A shade suddenly fell over Davos’ face. “But what of…succession. My wife and I – oh, my dear Marya – we are too old. And my boy, my Matthos, he’s – ”

“I promise you, Davos, if Gendry and I have children, the first will inherit the crown, but the second – the second will be intended for Storm’s End. You would teach our child how to be a good and kind ruler, worthy to follow in your footsteps,” Arya said, patting the man’s arm again.

Davos laughed. A true, loud laugh. “Well, you two better get to work, I’m not getting any younger.”

* * *

Some five days later, the city of King’s Landing was in shambles as the workforce was dwindled by a sudden illness swept through the city. Fatigue, vomiting, sweat and the chills kept many a proud person abed.

The illness had no such luck against Arya Baratheon, the She-Wolf and Dawnbringer. She wrestled with the sheets, trying to escape the question and prodding of the maester.

“I’m fine, really, I am. There’s too much to do. With everyone sick, I have to be doing more. There’s people to train, children to teach and buildings to mend.”

“My Queen, you vomited at breakfast and broke out in a sweat,” the maester reasoned.

“But I don’t have the chills. Yes, I’m a little tired, but you try rebuilding a Kingdom without getting a little tired.”

“So, you maintain the fatigue, nausea and sweating is not related to the illness?”

“Yes, I feel fine.”

At his sudden silence, Arya thought she had won the conversation and pulled back the sheets. But as her feet hit the floor, his voice froze her on the spot.

“My Queen, when was the last time you had your moon blood?”

Arya opened her mouth to argue, to prove him wrong with her timeline, but then, she paused. Slowly, she counted back how long she had been in King’s Landing, the time it took to travel from Winterfell and before that. Back to when…

She sat back on the bed, her knees suddenly weak.

“When were you due for your blood, My Lady?”

“About – about two weeks ago.

“And the month prior?”

She thought back for a moment. “About the time Jon left King’s Landing.”

“Were you intimate with anyone, My Lady, before then?”

Arya almost bristled at the unspoken question in his words. “Just once. On the night before the Battle for the Dawn, Gendry and I – we…are you sure? I mean, it was only once and – well, I was stabbed in the side, I thought it wasn’t possible.”

“Once is all it takes, My Lady. While it is possible for stress to cause irregularity in a woman’s cycle, to do so for two months is unlikely. Have you – forgive me for asking – been experiencing tenderness in your breasts or and increased need to…”

“Piss?” Arya finished for him, putting up her guard of disinterest to protect her face from showing her heightened nerves.

She thought back to the last week or so, when she had, indeed, been relieving herself more often. And even the night before, as Gendry used his hands and mouth to map across her body, she had shifted his focus from her chest, which had been tender to the touch.

“Are you certain?” Arya asked, her voice betraying her façade of calm.

“No, one can never be certain until there is a swelling of the belly. In the meantime, stay away from alcohol. Look what it does to grown men, it can only be worse for an babe’s development. Also, drink water and eat fruit and meat, but avoid overly sweet or salty foods.

“And, it is best to keep quiet from the public until it is certain. Whether you inform your husband at this early stage is up to you.”

The maester left the room, leaving Arya with her thoughts of a baby possibly growing inside of her.

* * *

It was Nymeria who discovered it first. The day after the pregnancy revelation, Arya was wondering through the city, checking on construction and her mind working over the best way to talk to Gendry.

A warm snuffling at her hand pulled her from her thoughts as she recognised Nymeria walking alongside her. The Direwolf then snuffled at Arya’s belly carefully, considering. The protective growl that left the animal’s throat was all Arya needed to confirm the maester’s suspicions.

“How do I tell him?” Arya asked of her companion.

“Tell who, what?” Arya tamped down the desire to jump but Gendry knew her well enough that, when she turned, he had a grin on his face. “I snuck up on you. I snuck up on the Dawnbringer.”

She pushed him, ignoring his laugh as he stumbled back a couple of steps. “Enjoy it, it’ll be the only time.”

Stepping close to her, Gendry slid an arm around her waist and pulled her forward into a lazy, half embrace. “You must be thinking about something important for me to get one over on you. Is something wrong?”

She almost told him right there in the middle of the street, with construction happening around them. Reigning in her thoughts, she stepped back, took him by the hand and led him to the Godswood.

“It seems, despite my determination to distance myself from anything remotely like a Lady, I’ve succumbed to one aspect of being one,” she said, taking both his hands.

He smiled. “What, have you taken up sewing?”

She shook her head and guided on of his hands to her still-flat stomach.

The smile fell from his face and he stared, first at her, then her stomach, and back again. Slowly, his eyes widened and he fell to his knees, resting his forehead against her belly.

“Really, are you sure?”

She hummed and nodded. “The maester suspected yesterday but I didn’t really want to believe it until Nymeria kind of confirmed it just now. I’m about two months along,” she said and she could see he understood the relevance of the timeframe. “I guess, we were so determined to live through the night, we created new life.

“And, I suppose, if there’s one traditional ladylike thing I was to do, I’m glad it’s this. I brought nothing but death for so long, it’s nice, I guess, to do the opposite. But,” she confessed. “I’m scared.”

Gendry surged to his feet and pulled her into a tight embrace. “Everything you do, you do it the best. You never back down from a challenge and I know you won’t start now,” he kissed her deeply. “I love you so much.”

* * *

Happy was the day, three months later, when the populous of King’s Landing found out their Queen was expecting a child. There was no grand announcement. Just the couple walking through the city, inspecting the great strides that had been made in repairs. The Queen’s usual outfit of practicality, with the tunic kitted against her form, left no doubt as to her condition.

Some brave matrons approached the pair as they passed and asked the question to know for certain. When the Queen responded that yes, she was expecting a babe, the matrons had crooned and congratulated.

Some offered tips on how to avoid nausea, mood swings and body aches. One daring, ancient old woman – who had expression so sharp and fierce, death itself was afraid to take her – informed the couple that although the “point” of intimate relations had been achieved, it was still safe to partake, if they so desired.

Arya had laughed and then laughed again when she saw the pink colouring that creeped into her husband’s face.

Nevertheless, they heeded the old woman’s words that night, to both their satisfaction.

* * *

As time passed and Arya’s due date grew ever closer, Sansa arrived so she could be there to support her sister. The elder of the two sisters had taken upon herself to learn as much as she could so she could maximise her role in the birth.

But as the time for the birth came and went, Arya grew increasingly frustrated her child had not been bored.

“I’m so sick of being this big. This is all your fault,” she grumbled to her husband as he finished his preparations for bed.

“You seduced me that night, if I’m remembering it correctly. Kissed me first, pushed me around, you were quiet forceful mi’lady,” he teased, sliding into bed next to her.

“We had a very small window, death literally marching to Winterfell. If I’d left it to you, stupid, we wouldn’t have done it.”

“See,” he grinned, gently caressing her swollen belly. “Not all my fault.”

“Stupid,” she mumbled, kicking him under the sheets. “I just want it born, it’s more than a week overdue. Almost two full week! It’s being stubborn, it’s definitely your babe.”

Gendry chuckled, leaning across to kiss her belly. “Stubbornness is definitely a Stark trait, though.”

Arya chose to ignore the gibe and wriggled until she was in a lying position. She tried for minutes to get comfortable and even for a few minutes, when he thought she was, she started moving again.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, entwining the fingers on one of their hands.

“I can’t – I mean I’m…frustrated.”

“I’m sorry. What can I do?” he asked and without a word, she guided their joined hands lower to her core and he sat up in surprise. “Are you sure?” Arya only nodded in response. “Okay then, how do you want me?”

“In me,” she huffed breathily as the mere, light contact of his finger on her already wet core delighting her.

“Are you sure?” he repeated, concerned.

She laughed. “What are you going to do, get me pregnant?”

He chuckled as he moved down the bed, pulling the covers back so he could better see what he was doing. A diligent and thoughtful lover, he wanted to bring her much pleasure first, before he sought his own. With great focus, he resumed his fingers movements in and around her core, paying special attention to her clit.

He had barely started his ministrations and had just started sinking a single, tentative digit inside her, when she gave a great moan and tensed up, before she relaxed with a mighty sigh. Gendry stared, amazed.

“Did you just…was that – ”

“I’m really, really hot and I’m really, really sensitive.” Then she rolled her hips towards him. “Again?”

Gendry nodded and then began again, with renewed enthusiasm.

* * *

The next day, the couple were sitting in the throne room, listening to petitions. Prior to Arya’s massive belly, they had preferred walking the streets and have people approach them, but – loath to admit it – Arya found it difficult to walk great distances in the heat of King’s Landing.

A baker from the city was talking his piece, when Arya suddenly groaned loudly and her hands flew to her belly. The throne room went silent as all eyes flew to her and Gendry stormed to his feet and moved to crouch by her other side.

“Arya?”

“I think the babe’s ready to come. Fucking, finally.”

Standing nearby, Ser Davos chuckled. “If it pleases everyone, it appears the King and Queen have somewhere very important to be. If you could return,” he spoke directly to the baker who had been speaking and was now white as  sheet. “In a week’s time, hopefully the King and Queen will be able to receive you.”

Not caring there was a room full of people watching them, Gendry scooped Arya up into his arms and hurried from the room, his eyes betraying his nervousness.

The whispers began as Ser Davos and Lady Stark followed them out of the room.

People throughout the city drank and toasted to their monarchs’ good fortune.

* * *

Davos waited the rest of the afternoon, slept a full night and was eating breakfast the next morning when he was fetched by one of the servants to the King and Queen’s chambers. As he swept into the room, eager as if it was his own grandchild, the older man’s eyes first took in Arya, who was sitting bed with a wrapped bundle in her arms, and Sansa seated next to her, eyes sparkling with tears.

“Davos,” Arya acknowledged, giving him a rare smile, tired as it was. “Would you like to come and meet Princess Sandra Baratheon, heir to the throne?”

Arya shifted the quiet bundle in her arms and moved the swaddling enough to reveal a red, squashed face of the sleeping infant. Davos’ heart swelled.

“Your Maj – Arya, congratulations, she’s wonderful,” Davos said, coming up to the side of the bed. “How do you feel? You look wonderful.”

Arya laughed. “Pretty words, Ser. I’ll take them for her, but I know I look like shite.”

“Arya! Not in front of Sandra,” Sansa scolded.

Something struck Davos. “Sandra?”

“In honour of Sandor. He saved me, when he turned me away. Even before I knew I was with child. And he saved us,” Arya explained.

Davos laughed. “He would hate that you’ve done that.”

Arya smirked. “Exactly, that makes it even better.”

Davos laughed again before he realised something very important. “Where is the lad? I didn’t think he’d leave your side before or after the birth.”

“He was helping the maester with something important,” Arya smiled again, her gaze shifting as a different door opened and the man himself walked in.

“Davos,” Gendry said, the softest smile the older man had ever seen on his face.

Davos smiled at Gendry. And then his eyes took in the parcel in the younger man’s hands. A precious, precious cargo.

“Lad?”

“Davos, I’d like you to meet our son.”

Davos boomed with laughter, tears coming to his eyes from the force of his laughter. “The seed is strong, indeed!”

Gendry grinned, moved over to the older man and gently shifted the dozing infant into the older man’s arms. “Davos, I’d like you to meet your namesake.”

For a moment, the words didn’t make sense for the older man. His gaze shifted from in the babe and then back to Gendry. Only then did he realise the lad had been speaking to the babe.

“Lad?” he croaked.

Gendry finally looked up at him, a happy, grateful smile on his face. “Sandra – our little Sandy – was named for one man whose actions meant she would live. I’ve never said so, but I consider you my father. And you saved me, twice. First from the Red Witch and the second, by bringing me from King’s Landing just over a year ago.

“I love you – we – love you,” he said, indicating to Arya, who was watching the exchange with a relaxed smile. “And we wanted to honour you.”

The tears were free-falling down Davos’ face as he cradled the infant close. The babe in question opened his eyes and Davos smiled down at the Baratheon blue eyes. He then smiled at Gendry – and nodded to Arya – his gratitude getting stuck in his throat.

“He has your looks, lad.”

“Well, little Davy will be your heir one day. You’ll have to teach this little man, Davos Baratheon, to be the best Baratheon Lord of Storm’s End the world has ever seen.”

Over on the bed, baby Sandra fussed in her mother’s arms and Gendry moved over to them. Taking the infant in his arms, Gendry took Sandra over to his father figure and his son. In his arms, Sandra opened her eyes and Gendry nearly wept with happiness at the Stark-grey eyes looking back at him.

* * *

Thousands of miles away, Bran Stark opened his eyes and, alone in his quarters, a ghost of a smile flashed across his lips.

With the birth of the Baratheon-Stark twins, fragments of the future were coming into focus.

There would be six wolf-stags in total, three each of boys and girls. Many a lord and lady would teasingly jest that the King and Queen were determined to fill every great House in Westeros.

In decades to come, another royal procession would march north, but this time it would bring nothing but joy. The twins would be visiting their next eldest sibling, Eddard Baratheon – who, by the grace of the gods, had inherited his mother’s the true northern looks – that Lady Sansa, Wardeness of the North, had named as her heir.

The northern people’s happiness when the young Lord Eddard announced he would honour his mother’s family by taking the Stark last name, inspired songs to be written about that moment.

Lyanna Baratheon, fourth of the six, would inherit Dragonstone. Her Baratheon black hair, grey Stark eyes and superbly stubborn demeanour endeared her towards the people living in the castle’s surrounds. Her fierceness helped forge them towards a new age.

Catelyn Baratheon, the spitting image of her mother, was the greatest warrior of her age. Under the tutelage of mother, she served first her parents and then her eldest sister Sandra faithfully as captain of the military. She would be the one to inherit Winter’s Fury. A sword crafted lovingly by her father for her mother, it would be passed down the Baratheon line until it itself was lost to time.

Jon Baratheon, the youngest of the six, was the quietest of his siblings. With northern features but eyes exactly like his father’s, the lad was very rarely out of his father’s presence. His quiet demeanour hid a great intelligence and from a very young age he would be found in the forge with his father. The little Lord, Bran saw, would go on to revolutionise the lives of the commonfolk with his great mind.

Under the youngest Baratheon’s guide, the people of King’s Landing and Westeros throughout benefited from free education for children of any station, huge strides in ways to manipulate metal – much to his father’s delight – and his refuge program for any woman in need – much to his mother’s delight.

Remembered through song and the words of Lord Samwell Tarly, King Gendry Baratheon and Queen Arya the Dawnbringer, would be remembered in history as the architects of the Golden Age of Westeros.


End file.
